


Five Stones and a Sling

by janewithawhy



Category: Kill la Kill
Genre: M/M, homo intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:29:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewithawhy/pseuds/janewithawhy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the story of Uzu's favorite sweater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Stones and a Sling

He’s never been able to quite explain it, but hearing carolers harmonizing the English version of “Silent Night” always made him oddly nostalgic. He could hear them, filtering up to his third floor apartment from the street, so he went to the window to pull the blinds back and take a peak. He hummed along as they walked past.

Once they were gone, he took a moment to look at the flakes of snow falling lightly, just barely starting to stick to the pavement below. He breathed against his glass and drew a face, grinning to himself as he added a Santa’s hat to it. He almost left it, but then, for good measure, he added two thick eyebrows to it and a frown before walking away, chuckling to himself. 

His fridge was decorated with holiday cards—the personalities of each sender brought out by the content of each card’s cover. He was surprised to get the handmade one, covered in red and green crayon, and stuffed, bent, into a plain white envelope. He was even more surprised by its short, sweet, but heartfelt note.

_Sanagayama-sempai,_

_Merry Christmas! I know you didn’t mean to really hurt me when you kidnapped me that one time. River under the bridge or however that goes! Your friendship has more than made up for it!_

_See you soon,_

_Mako Mankanshoku <3_

There was one that was just a post card, completely devoid of the merriment of any winter holiday to grace its cover. It confused him at first, but when he turned it over and saw that familiar scrawl of handwriting, he couldn’t help but chuckle.

_Monkey,_

_Merry Christmas. You were less of an idiot this year than last._

_Still an idiot, though._

_Nonon_

A blue and white, wintery scene with flowery calligraphy had arrived in his mailbox in a darker blue, shimmering envelope. It was plain to see from whom that particular card came from before he even looked at the return address. It took him a couple times to read through to process her message completely; the near perfect print of his former leader’s handwriting always mesmerized him to the point of confusion.

_Dear Sanagayama,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good spirits—if I recall correctly, you always had a particular, if not secret, fondness for the winter holidays. Although I say it every year, its truth is never diminished: thank you for your friendship and support. Merry Christmas, Uzu._

_With Love,  
_ _Kiryuuin Satsuki_

_P.S. I do hope you’re attending our New Year’s party. I believe my sister and I need to “continue the tradition” of “beasting” at beer pong and “crush the monkey and that stupid troll doll”, if I have her linguistics correct._

And as if the younger Kiryuuin had done it on purpose, Matoi’s card was almost the exact opposite of her sister’s, for it arrived in a deep red envelope, was made out of recycled paper cardstock, and made completely by messy hand. Large, clumsy brush strokes adorned its cover wishing him happy holidays.

_Uzu,_

_You’re alright. Merry Kwanza, Happy Hannukah, and Merry Christmas, fool. You still get on my nerves, always tryna challenge me to fights and things, but it’s like this weird, grossly endearing part of your personality at this point._

_Whatever. Hope you got me a gift; I’ll sick my sis on ya if you didn’t._

_Smoke dank and get skanks,  
_ _Ryuko Matoi_

_p.s. that was a joke my sister said not to refer to women as skanks and that I shouldn’t have even written it but I’m not gonna remake your fuckin’ card, so she can bite me_

There was a card from his parents up there, too. Houka had sent him one of those videos where you put your friends’ heads onto elves and made them dance that had Uzu laughing his head off for almost half an hour. Iori chose to forgo a card entirely and only sent Uzu a hand knit, deep emerald beanie. There was even a card from Soroi, held up by a magnet there, and a season’s greetings from his dentist.

But as he reached to remove a beer from fridge he frowned, noting the lack of one particular letter he thought he’d have received by now. He wanted to say that it didn’t bother him, but that would be a blatant lie, and as he (briefly, because too much thinking complicated things) thought about the reasons for his disappointment, he itched at his favorite worn sweater.

His doorbell rang, and he snapped his head to his wall clock before frowning. He wasn’t expecting visitors—Satsuki always had the decency to shoot him a text if she happened to stop over, and though Nonon had barged in on more than one occasion to play his plethora of video games, she was usually accompanied by Ryuko who seemed to have adopted her sister’s sense of courtesy in the recent years. He grumbled and gripped the neck of his beer with his knuckles before wrenching his door open.

“Whatever you’re selling, I do—big guy!”

Uzu’s face split into a grin at the sight of the man in front of him, taking up almost the entire doorway. Ira’s frown softened and his shoulders relaxed—he looked almost humbled in Uzu’s presence. Ducking down, he entered Uzu’s apartment as his friend clapped him on the back, a beer being shoved unceremoniously into Ira’s gigantic hand followed by some muttering about not having taken a sip yet. They shared idle chitchat while Uzu fetched himself another beverage before settling himself onto the couch next to his oversized friend.

“Didn’t expect you to show up.”

“Apologies for my lack of warning,” Ira replied. “I was just—oh! Your card."

He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a single envelope before handing it to Uzu.

“No worries, buddy!” Uzu grinned, taking the card. He reached forward and clapped his friend on the knee. “Always welcome—you know that!"

Ira hummed as he sipped on his beer. As he watched Uzu read his card with a grin on his face, he stuck a pinky out in inquiry.

“That sweater…”

“Huh?”

Uzu looked down and immediately turned a few shades of pink—the contrast between his face and the green tint of his hair seemed to embody some of the merriment of the season. He rubbed at his well-worn, favorite sweater. It was a yellow crew neck that was slightly faded, giving it a soft pastel look. There were a few slight pinholes in the elbows and the bottom was frayed a bit. In the middle of the sweater, the brush strokes of a company logo was painted in something that used to be a bold black, but was now sun-faded to a deep navy. It was a few sizes too small—the sleeves of which were tight around his forearms, showing a few inches of skin above his wrists, and if he stood and stretched, a fair amount of his stomach would become exposed. But its size is not what embarrassed him.

He planted his palm over his nose and groaned.

“That is it, though? The same one?” Ira asked again, one of those ridiculous, bushy blonde eyebrows quirked up as he pointed.

“I mean,” Uzu stammered. “Look man—y-yea! It’s just an old sweater! Don’t make a fuss about it, ya know?! Jeez.”

Ira merely looked at it fondly, an amused smirk gracing the upturned corners of his lips. Lightly, he punched Uzu in the arm and they resumed their conversation, catching up and drinking lightly, the red tinge of Uzu’s face dissipating quickly as they progressed from day-to-day recollections to reminiscing about a time long past, every retold story dripped in nostalgia.

It was during this reminiscing, this exaggeration of their once ridiculous pasts that they lost track of the number of beer bottles opened. At some point, Ira caught sight of the snow falling outside and they stood at the window, arms clasped across one another’s shoulders, still laughing about something they may or may not have done once upon their youth.

By the time Ira had realized he had probably drank two or three too many, it was well into the night, and that light snow that was falling had turned to inches, sticking to the pavement below. They had made a plan to set up the couch for Ira to crash on, and Uzu had fully intended on following through with that plan when he got up to get blankets, but then they found themselves, their feet covered, still talking, still enjoying each other’s time, and those plans were lost between the memory of running a school and the aftermath of the near apocalypse of humanity as they knew it.

And maybe it was just the right amount of nostalgia mixed with that particular measurement of alcohol that made it so easy for Uzu to fall asleep, head against Ira’s shoulder, soft snoring resounding through his living room. And maybe it was the exhaustion of expelling one’s shared past to somebody whose friendship could be measured in years, but felt like lifetimes, that made it so easy for Ira to carefully place his finished beer bottle at the edge of the table before he also gave up to slumber. 

In the middle of the night, when the temperature in his apartment had dropped the lowest, Uzu would wake up. He would startle, for a second, before realizing that he was in his own apartment and Ira would grunt against him in his sleep. And though he could easily retreat to his own bed, set the thermostat as he saw fit, and wake up without a crick in his neck, Uzu would do nothing but settle against his friend and fall back asleep.

But before he did, he would clutch his favorite sweater to his chest, and he would sigh deep, and he would inhale the faintest scent of iron and sandalwood and he would dream something that was more a memory than anything else. 

 

* * *

 

_“Do you own nothing else?”_

_“S-s-s-s-shove it, Goliath-th-th.”_

_“It’s the middle of winter, you’re wearing your old school’s uniform over a t-shirt without sleeves, Sanageyama.”_

_Even in the cold, Uzu’s face flushed red, his nose almost glowing. He hugged himself at the elbows, shuddering, and looked away from Ira._

_“Y-y-yea well, w-w-w-whatev-ver, man.”_

_Ira watched Uzu walk away then. They were not yet friends and Uzu was not yet convinced that their ragtag group of misfits was to accomplish anything. His only goal seemed to be besting Satsuki in anything from swordplay to most breathes taken in the middle of the day. Ira watched the smaller, younger man walk away, hunched through the wind, and caught sight of the frayed edges of his pants, the worn out elbows of his school jacket, the beat up state of his sneakers. He frowned._

_But when he saw Uzu next, he merely threw a heavy knit, bright yellow sweater at his new comrade._

_“The hell?!"_

_“Just take it—I don’t want to hear complaints from you. And before you get sentimental, it’s just an old one of mine, so it might be big for you.”_

_Again, Uzu turned red._

_“I don’t need your charity, old man face!”_

_Ira merely glowered at him._

_“Do with it what you will, Sanageyama. But there is no shame in accepting a hand extended and ready to aid.”_

_“I’m not a poor kid,” Uzu said, fists bunching in the sweater._

_“I never said you were,” Ira replied. He turned on his heel and walked away. He thought he’d never see that sweater again._


End file.
